On the steps of the poor house

Saved on the steps of the poor house

Each day the sun still shines,
on the steps of the poor house but
the dust never settles or touches the streets that lead,
to the steps of the poor house,
where the door, slightly ajar, let's in souls,
searching, hungry and wishing for a day's escape.

We all look and
we all glance, sidelong and furtive,
at the steps of the poor house,
hoping in silence,
daring against life, that our feet never touch,
the steps of the poor house,
that our eyes never see inside,
that if life should fail,
and our hand reaches out to push on the door of the poor house,
we find rescue,
refuge.

But sometimes the sun hides,
as the dust of the poor house settles around our feet,
as we stand before the steps,
and as our hearts fail a little bit inside our chest,
humility trickles down our cheeks as we shade our eyes,
bow our heads and knock on the door of the poor house.

Shaking shame, greeting defeat,
we let go of failing sand to grasp the hand of hope,
warm and gentle that swings a bag of help our way.

The rescue is found at the steps of the poorhouse,
like Heaven glimpsed above heads that are bowed.
The victory is not in the asking but the receiving,
the ever-present help in time of need,
with the bold approach to the throne of Grace,
hands out, 

feet dusty, 

heads held high 

with our hearts

full of thankfulness.